


time doesn't love you anymore

by colourist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourist/pseuds/colourist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fate can be a cruel temptress. One who conspires against you, and ensnares you in her tendrils at night. It's an electric passion, the feeling. To be one with her devices, or to be against her completely. The choice is yours in the beginning, but the end, you belong to her.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or the one where Harry and Louis meet several times throughout history and it never works out. Until one time it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time doesn't love you anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brbhoran (harrylouiz)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrylouiz/gifts).



> Okay, the big reveal. This is dedicated to Brooke who submitted her prompts for the Valentine's exchange. I hope you like it, and I hope it's worth reading. I had to carve what I wanted and you wanted out of it, but I think it turned out pretty well. Happy Valentine's Day, darling.
> 
> I'd also like to take a moment to thank the following people. Without them, this fic would not have happened. Chloe, thank you for being my beta/britpick. Maya, I was lucky enough to be your partner in all of this, and you're a beautiful ray of light in my life. And, of course, Megan and Sophie who read over this to reassure me of its quality and worth.

— 1312 —

Harry has found himself in the royal court; at service to King Philip, and his only heir to the throne: Prince Louis. He lives at their bidding, or more so, Prince Louis'. The prince is a mess; his ailing father a constant worry of his as he ages.

The prince is only 17 years into his life, so pardon him if taking care of an entire kingdom has him a bit on the stressful side of things.

"'Arry," Louis' french accent cuts through the happy music playing in the court. Harry leans down, offering the prince his attention. "Escort me to my chambers, and let the guests know I'm feeling ill this evening."

Harry's family had migrated to France after an onset of plague in England, hoping it wouldn't spread to the beautiful lands of the French. It had been difficult at first, fitting in to a country that was once at the brink of chaos with your home country- but it has worked to their benefit. His father obtained a job in the markets, and his mother took care over his sick sister, Gemma. Occasionally, however, if the family was low on money his mother would make dresses for families in and around their village.

Back in England it was said she made the prettiest dresses.

Harry had managed to get a job in King Philip's court serving the prince, who, in the beginning, was quite dull compared to the stories he had heard of him. Although, Harry's opinion quickly changed, because behind closed doors the prince was not the same as he was in the public eye.

"Of course, my prince," Harry nodded, quickly whispering to a knight standing nearby that the prince would be off to bed now.

Louis stood up, and silence cut through the crowded room like a rooster calling for morning. People bowed as he passed, shifting their eyes to the expensive green velvet of his shoes, and the rare pearls decorating the straps. Luxury was always a priority of the royals, and nobles of the land — as Harry had discovered. In time of peace, or war, only the finest would be accepted for royal blood. The halls echoed as the small heel of Louis' shoes hit the marble flooring, and Harry quietly followed behind with one guard. He kept his head bowed, and his hands folded in front of him.

They reached the prince's chambers before long, and Harry was following the royal inside as the guard planted his feet at the door.

"Would you like a hot bath tonight, sire?" Harry asked the prince, quickly helping the young royal take off the crown that rested atop his head.

It was a moment before Harry heard a reply. "Yes."

Harry nodded, carefully stepping around the prince and back out into the hall. He'd have to have the water warmed, and brought back to the prince's chambers.

One bucket. Two buckets. Three buckets. Four buckets of steaming hot water for the prince to soak in.

The tub was filled, and the prince was stripped down to nothing but his own skin before stepping in and submerging his body.

Harry perched at the side on his knees, the rough stone almost enough to bruise. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms as he dipped his hands into the water. He collected enough to pour over Louis' right shoulder, then his left.

The prince used to have four separate servants, but he got rid of them all once he took a certain liking to Harry. His favorite thing was that the boy spoke both French and English, so in the presence of specific company, Louis could be discreet.

Harry's favorite thing about the prince is his sense of humor.

"Ce est excellent, 'Arry," Louis sighed, his shoulders rolling back and relaxing as he let his head rest against the edge of the grand tub.

Harry smiled, his fingertips gently rubbing against the soft skin of Louis' arms and shoulders. When the prince tipped his head back, and closed his eyes, Harry couldn't help but admire his beauty. His lashes fanned out across his cheeks, and his lips were tinted a natural pink rose. His eyes reminded Harry of the sky on warm summer afternoons, clear and unfazed.

His hands slid further down, his slender fingers counting the young prince's knuckles. _Had he always been so beautiful?_ , Harry wondered.

Harry's tongue wetted his dry lips, his brows furrowed slightly as he focused on the rise and fall of the young prince's chest. He half-wondered if he'd fallen asleep until his hand moved, and his delicate fingers circling Harry's wrist.

Harry looked up, his curious green eyes meeting consenting blues.

Louis picked up Harry's hand, pulling it under the water. He placed it against his thigh, and Harry took the opportunity to squeeze the soft skin there. His calloused fingers traced along his thigh, and moved _upupup_ , until—

"Go on," Louis breathed, shoulders rolling back as he breathed.

His fingers wrapped around Louis' hardening cock, and the young prince gasped at the sensation. Harry pulled his hand over Louis' length, stroking him until the prince was gripping the sides of the tub with shaking hands, and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

"O-oh," He moaned, managing to keep his hips against the floor of the tub and not bucking up into Harry's touch.

Harry swallowed nervously, his green eyes flitting between his wrist and the prince's face.

“Can I t—,”

“ _No_.” Louis said, jaw clenching as he answered, his eyes still closed.

He didn’t let the prince’s refusal stop him. He was, after all, at the future king’s service.

Little whimpers left Louis’ lips, his hips stuttering against Harry’s soft palm as he came. Harry’s grip didn’t subside, leaving Louis to twitch in his open hand.

“I need to d—,” Harry tried again.

“And I need you to leave.” Louis said, his decision abrupt. This time with open eyes, and a towering frame, as he rose out of the murky bath water.

Harry wriggled back on his knees, vulnerable under his prince’s powerful stance, the stone floor hard against his knees as he pushed himself up. 

_Louis wanted him to leave?_

“Your Grace, I just have to get your gow—,”

Louis shook his head, his wet feet slapping against the cold stone floor of his large bed chamber. “I _said_ I need you to leave.” Louis repeated, voice rough.

Harry bowed, obeying. He took three steps backward and turned, his legs carrying him to the door. Before he could twist the golden handle, his name is called. He glanced over his shoulder, careful to keep his eyes down.

“Tell my Princess that she can visit me in my bed tonight,” Louis said, his sleeping gown draped off his wet frame. It was as if Louis was put there to torture Harry. Show him what he couldn’t have.  
The thin fabric was clinging to his wet skin, the front cut into a v-shape to expose his neck and prominent collarbones. _So beautiful_.

 

He stepped out into the hall and led the way to the Princess's chamber. One of her handmaidens escorted her out, her thin body draped in a gown similar to that of the prince’s. He watched her go, the fabric flowing behind her, and a soft floral scent following.

Harry went to bed that night with the young prince on his mind. And it was the same every night after, for all of twenty years, until the prince passed away in his sleep.

— 1781—

Gunpowder tickled his nose, his ears ringing with the sound of cannon fire. It’s all he’d heard for months.

At the beginning, every boy was expected to enlist, and fight for freedom. Louis had signed up willingly, his parents citizens of the New World just like everyone else in his colony. Now, he wasn’t sure whose blood was staining his uniform, or how much longer he could walk before the hole in his shoe wore open and the sole of his barefoot met war-torn ground.

They were walking in formation. To his left was George, a doctor back in the colony of Delaware. To his right was Harry, a 17-year-old boy with too much blood on his hands, and a fearful look gleaming in his green eyes. He’d met Harry way back, several months ago at least. Instead of sleeping while at camp they spend their nights cleaning the barrels of their guns around a warm fire and over shared cups of spring water.

Louis learned that he was from Massachusetts, and that his father was a carpenter, barely making enough to support his small family. He didn’t want to fight, as he’d explained, but a reward was promised for any young life pledged. And to that Harry couldn’t possibly refuse.

Harry was often seen stumbling over his own feet, and struggling to pour powder into the barrel of his gun.

Louis can still remember when Harry had first killed a man. He was sick at his stomach back at camp, bent over in a pit of dirt and gasping for air. Other soldiers had walked on without so much a glance, but Louis had stopped and helped him up. He’d held him, sleeping on a bed of soft grass with his arm slung around around the boy’s waist, and Harry’s face buried into the crook of Louis’ neck.

Their lips had touched that night, only briefly, and neither spoke of it the next day.

Now they didn’t leave one another’s side, both longing for the end of the war so that they can return to their families. They don’t speak about what happens after, but both are fairly sure they know.

“Ready! Aim! Pull!” Men chorused, noise spilling into the air as triggers were pulled.

They fell, young and old, and all Louis could do was step around the bodies of his fellow soldiers. Each man around him worked to fill their barrels, powder spilling out of burlap bags that were clipped to their uniform.

He looked over at Harry, the boy’s hands shaking and failing to pour his powder correctly. Louis jumped at the opportunity, helping Harry fill his gun before pulling the trigger back on his own.

The same commands were shouted: “Ready! Aim! Pull!”

Line by line, men continued to fall, red staining uncut blades of green grass with their comrades blood. Louis worked frantically, filling his gun and firing. Filling his gun and firing.

The image of a flag, waving in surrender, brought tears to his eyes as men around him fell to their knees and his ears rang still. _They’re surrendering._

The war was won, and freedom was theirs. He’d made it, and Harry had—

“Harry—?,” When Louis looked to find his right side missing Harry, panic rose like bile in his throat. He felt sick to his stomach.

He clutched his gun and turned around, jumping over the dead bodies of fallen soldiers, friend and foe alike.

“Harry!” He shouted, desperate, eyebrows furrowed as he looked back towards the western sun setting.

Soldiers were running toward him, yet none matched the appearance of his young friend. _His_ Harry.

He stepped through the tall grass, gun gripped tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He stumbled when something wrapped around his ankle, his gun hitting the ground as he caught himself on nothing but air.

He glanced down, shaking it off when he saw the strap around his boot. His eyes followed the blood soaked strap to a body, a nervous lump settled in the hollow of his throat. There he was, his face smudged in dirt and blood, and his eyes open — glazed over as the sun sunk in the sky.

Louis wondered how long he’d been there. How long he’d gone without checking to see if Harry was by his side. _It was his fault._

“No, no, _no_!” Louis stumbled again, frantically trying to get his ankle out of the blood soaked trap.

He fell onto his knees, the loose dirt sinking beneath him. His hands gripped Harry’s shoulders, squeezing them as he peered into his lifeless eyes and glanced down to where crimson soak through his shirt.

“Harry—,”

Louis wasn’t even fazed when a hand jerked his shoulder back, and a voice shouted in his ear: _“They’re surrendering! The war is won!”_

“ _Please, Harry_. We can go home now,” Louis tried to wipe the dirt and blood off Harry’s face. “Home. I promised we would, didn’t I?”

No response came.

Time seemed to fade as he sat on his knees, by Harry’s side as the sun set and men moved about the field to take names of the deceased.

“Do you know this one?” A man asked, and Louis didn’t even glance up. “He was a youngin’,”

His eyes didn’t leave the place the sun hung in the sky only hours prior because he knew. _That’s where Harry was._

“Louis,” Louis mumbled, his mouth parched. “Louis Tomlinson.” He glanced up at the man, watching him scribble his name down onto the page.

In that moment, time stopped, and home no longer mattered.

— 1969 —

They were calling it an “Aquarian Exposition”. Woodstock, in other words, three days of music. Really, it’s nothing more than a dehydrated mass of 500,000 attendees.

When 17-year-old Harry Styles bought his ticket, he was singing ‘Proud Mary’ all the way there. He’s been anxious to see Creedence Clearwater Revival ever since. The bad news was that they were starting in less than thirty minutes, and in a flurry of excitement to get to the stage, he cut barefoot through a field and stepped on a broken bottle.

He half-limped, half-clutched onto his friend’s shirt to one of the scarce medical tents scattered across the massive 600-acre field.

“It looks like it cut pretty deep,” The guy said, and to be honest, Harry isn’t even sure he’s a doctor. He doesn’t have gloves on, and his lack of a shirt is only adding to Harry’s suspicion. Harry hissed through his teeth when a clear solution was poured over his foot, and the blood is wiped off.

“It looks like you might need stitches, kid,” The guy added, bloody gauze in his hands as he glanced up. “There’s a bus leaving in about ten minutes if you want, there’s a hospital not far if you can get a ride in town.”

“No!” Harry said, sitting up a little too fast considering the lack of fluid in his body. “I have— no, I’m gonna stay. Just wrap it up or something, okay?”

The guy looked at Harry like he was stupid. Maybe he was. 

“ _Please_?” Harry pleaded, glancing out of the tent and back towards the stage.

Harry watched his foot be wrapped up, medical tape going up and around his ankle. The blood would soak through the gauze in no time, but he doesn’t care. He’d leave after CCR’s set was up.

And then someone was standing next to him. “You wantin’ to see Creedence?” That someone asked.

He looked up at the pair of bright blue eyes, and nodded.

“Looks like ya’ cut up your foot,” Blue-eyes examined, and offered Harry a smashed bottle of warm water.

“Yeah, I did.,” Harry nodded, clutching the bottle of water.

“Hey, I’m goin’ over there,” Blue-eyes cuts him off, but Harry doesn’t take him as anything but a friendly person. “Want me to walk with ya?”

He had a certain look about him. Maybe it’s the fact that his tank top had been cut in half to expose his stomach. Whatever it was, Harry liked it.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry nodded, his skin warm and cheeks flushed under the summer sun.

Harry moved to stand, his brows furrowing in pain as he moved to stand on his injured foot. And then there was an arm looped around his waist, and he was looking back at the same pretty blue eyes. “Thanks,”

Blue-eyes smiled, his hand squeezing his side gently. “I’m Louis, by the way,” He introduced, “I’m from Alabama. Served in Vietnam and all.”

 _‘Vee-it-nahm,’_ Harry mouthed to himself, head bowed as his hair fell to curtain his face. He liked Louis’ accent. Or everything about him, if he was being honest. 

“I’m Harry.” He smiled, his arm sweaty against Louis’ back. “I’m from Indiana.”

Louis nodded, supporting Harry’s weight as they cut through fields with shorter grass in order to reach the stage. They did, finally, and even though it’s a few minutes into CCR’s set he didn’t really care. Louis even got them a spot, pushing through the crowd and shouting: _“Injured boy! Move outta the way!”_

“So how come you’re not in your uniform?” Harry asked, still hanging off Louis.

Louis smiled, his tan skin glowing beneath the burning sun. “I thought you wanted to see Creedence, not ask questions ‘bout me?” His laugh was melodic, mixing with the music in Harry’s ears.

Harry shrugged.

“Well, I don’t support the war. Never have,” Louis said, glancing up at the stage and back at Harry. “But I like Creedence. It’s all you hear over there.”

“Is it pretty over there?” Harry asked, eyes narrowed as the sun beamed down onto the crowds.

Louis nodded. “It was.”

Harry watched Louis for a moment, and smiled softly. “Do you have’ta go back?”

Louis shrugged. “Dunno. Hope not.” He looked at Harry, and for the first time he could see that he wasn’t smiling. His eyes had something else in them. 

Creedence was great. Harry even danced and belted out the lyrics to “I Put A Spell On You”.

He rested his head against Louis’ shoulder, hot, and sweaty, and just really, really, tired. The ground moved beneath him, and his eyes narrow as he faces the burning ball in the sky.

“Where are we going, Louis?” Harry asked, unmoving as Louis carried him.

“We’re gonna get you on that bus and make sure you get to a doctor,” A voice, softer than Louis’, chimed.

“Who’s that, Louis?” Harry asked, too tired to lift his head and look.

The same voice giggled, mocking Harry playfully. “Yeah, who is that, Louis?”

“Hush, both of ya,” Louis said, smiling down at Harry and over to his right. “It’s my wife, Harry. Eleanor, remember?”

Harry might not remember. But he also might feel sick at his stomach. Louis is married? Better yet, _why is Louis not married to him?_

“Okay, Harry-from-Indiana,” Louis smiled, wrapping a cool towel around Harry’s shoulders. “There’s enough money there to get you a ride to the hospital in town.”

Why was Harry leaving? He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and marry Louis, and dance to sexy songs, and ignore Eva or Emily’s existence. _Whatever._

 

“Don’t wanna go yet,” Harry mumbled, soaked in sweat, and whatever else he’d accumulated for the last two days.

But there was no one there to say anything. No Louis in front of him or carrying him. He iwas on a bus, barefoot, and without a shirt. Hot air blows down onto the him from one of the vents. His body is aching, his stomach clutching nothing but air. Harry feels sick when the bus begins to move, his head rolling to the side to hit the window, and there.

It was Louis. Harry smiled through the dirty window, lifting his hand to wave at the pretty brunette boy he hadn’t even got to marry. __

__

— 2049 —

Sand is trapped beneath his short fingernails, and plastic tools surrounded him. He’s sitting in his swim shorts, and he’s made it a rule that no one is allowed in his sandbox except for his Louis and himself.

Harry doesn’t understand how Meghan doesn’t get that. It’s rule that’s been in place for like, all of Harry’s life.

“She picks her nose anyways,” Louis said, sand shifting beneath his knees as he reached for the miniature plastic shovel.

Harry’s not sure of what they are building. It’s something between a castle and he and Louis’ future home.

“Ew! That’s gross, Lou Lou,” Harry giggled, not even blinking when his mum comes over to rub more sunscreen over his shoulders and cheeks.

It’s July, and it’s hot. The pump on the pool was running, and the stereo is blaring the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way”. It’s been on nonstop in Styles household since it release, and Harry wants nothing more than to be best friends with his older sister so he’s taken the time to learn every lyric on their tape.

 _Gemma is cool_. That’s what Louis said. Like, actually said.

But more than cake, and ice cream, and sand, and a chlorine filled pool, this party is just a reminder. Everytime he looks at Louis — which is only ever half a second — he remembers that Louis is leaving.

Like, _for good_. And not just out of Cheshire, but _out of England_.

Harry doesn’t want to lose his best mate to stupid America. What’s in stupid America anyway? Besides like, American cheese, and Disneyland.

Harry sighed, looking down at their lopsided blob of sand. “I don’t want you to go, Lou Lou,”

Louis looked up, his expression mimicking Harry’s. “I know, Hazza. But mum said I have to.”

“But you can live with me!” Harry said happily, like it might change everything.

“Where?” Louis asked, not as excited.

Harry looked around the back garden, and pointed towards the garage. “There!”

Louis shook his head, and sighed. “I dunno, Hazza.”

That made Harry sad.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Louis reached over the lopsided sand structure to hold Harry’s hand.

Harry moved, his knees crushing the castle-slash-home as he crawled towards Louis. “Please,” He sniffled, tears cutting through the sunscreen on his cheeks.

Louis wrapped his arms around Harry, his chin hooking over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hazza.” Louis said, voice just as sad as Harry’s. “It’ll be okay though, okay?”

“No it won’t!” Harry cried, burying his face into the crook of Louis’ neck. He smelled like Harry’s strawberry-banana bubble bath they’d used the night before.

“Yeah-huh, mum said that I could send you letters and stuff.” Louis explained, feeling Harry pull away at the mention of _stuff_. It didn’t change the fact that Louis was moving, but it made him feel slightly better.

“Okay. If you promise then,” Harry wiped his cheeks, chalky-white sunscreen wiping off on the backs of his hands.

Louis nodded, and brushed back Harry’s chestnut curled ringlets. “I promise.”

Harry was okay with that because promises meant _everything_. 

He stood up then, pulling Louis with him. “Let’s swim,” He said, interlocking their fingers and pulling Louis towards the pool. “I wanna see who can hold their breath longer.”

Louis giggled, and smiled. “Okay.”

That night, when Harry and Anne accompanied Louis and his family to the airport, they all exchanged hugs and happy tears. Harry hugged Louis for approximately four minutes and six seconds. He counted.

He watched them go, waving sadly. And that was the last time they spoke.

Louis didn’t keep his promise.

— 2129 —

The wind is brisk, chapping his lips. The boardwalk is empty, and he was late forty minutes ago, now he’s just searching for an excuse.

His pack of cigarettes are smashed, and trash blows by his feet. The flame from his lighter is eliminated, the Atlantic fighting against him as miles of boardwalk pass beneath his feet.

He ended up on a bench, cigarette half-lit and cushioned between his lips. He’s running on uppers, a mix of some cocaine and ecstasy he’d shared with some girl with magenta hair in the bathroom of some bar.

“Is this seat taken?” A voice cut through his thoughts.

Harry shook his head, not even glancing to the side. It’s nearing 4AM, and most are in bed. Instead, he’s on the boardwalk, wind whipping around him, and his lungs wrapping around nicotine.

“What’s their name?” The same voice interrupted, and this time Harry looked to his right.

He was young, probably around Harry’s age, and gorgeous. His high cheekbones cast shadows on the rest of his face, and stubble lined his jaw. His blue eyes reminded Harry of semi-precious stones.

“Michael,” Harry sniffed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“Do you love Michael?” The stranger asked.

Harry’s brows furrowed, his frame unmoving. His cigarette burned, accumulating ash on the end. “Yeah,” He admitted, voice rough.

Hours prior he’d been on stage belting out lyrics to songs he’d wrote traveling between states, and between romances that hurt him more than he’d liked to admit. Now he’s on a boardwalk seated next to a stranger, the waves crashing against the shore not far off in the distance, and so, so vulnerable.

“Does Michael love you?”

The question made Harry’s throat burn. “He asked me to marry him.” He said, flicking the end of his cigarette before bringing it to his lips.

“And you said no?” The stranger pressed.

Harry nodded.

Silence filled the void then, long enough for Harry’s cigarette to burn out. He let it fall to the ground before sitting back and looking over at the stranger. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

The stranger shook his head. “No,” He said, his hands shoved into the pockets of his gray hoodie. “I think you know what you want.”

“I don’t.” Harry admitted.

“Well, sometimes it’s better to just go with it,” The stranger said, examining the Vans clinging to his feet. “It’s your life. And if it doesn’t work out with Michael, well, at least you’ll have known you tried.”

Harry seemed to think about it, his posture tense before he suddenly burst out into laughter.

“What?” The stranger chuckled, watching Harry hiccup over nothing but air.

“You’re shit at this,” Harry said, smoothing his palms over his jean clad thighs. “I wouldn’t recommend offering advice anymore, I me—,”

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” The stranger spat playfully, “I was trying to help! You’re the one on a boardwalk in twenty degree weather with a broken heart.”

Harry raised a brow, curious now. Had the stranger been following him? “Oh? Who are you then?”

“That doesn’t matter.” The stranger said, voice quieter. “Just go fix what you fucked up, yeah? Trust me on this one, okay?”

Maybe it was his stubborn qualities, or just the fact that he had nothing to lose anymore, but he stood up. “Can I get your name at least?” Harry asked, his large eyes fixated on the stranger in front of him.

“Louis, and you?” The stranger, Louis, said.

“Harry.” He replied, biting his bottom lip as he glanced down the empty boardwalk. It was just he and Louis.

Louis smiled up at Harry, unmoving. “Goodluck, Harry.”

Smiling gratefully, Harry just nodded, standing silently before pushing his legs to carry his lean frame back down the boardwalk.

Louis didn’t leave the bench, mouth dry. He glanced down, seeing Harry’s forgotten pack of cigarettes. He took one out of the pack and placed it between his lips but he didn’t have a lighter. He didn’t have anything except the ocean to keep him company.

— 2209 —

The smell of fresh-cut grass is either welcoming, or infuriating to Harry’s too-easily persuaded allergies. Today it’s infuriating as spring settles in London, and flowers bloom.  
His walking stick guided him along the pavement, but Ben’s little hand directed him towards the playground. “We’re almost there dad, come on!” He squeaked, his little legs picking up pace.

“Slow down, Ben,” Harry said, voice soft as he was led towards the playground. “Find me a bench, yeah?” He’s got a bag slung over his chest, juice-boxes and sandwiches stuffed inside.

“Okay, two steps back, dad,” Ben directed, his hands holding Harry’s.

His calves hit the painted bench and he sat back, holding onto his walking stick. “Do you want your food now or later?”

“Later,” Ben answered, anxiously shifting on his feet.

Harry laughed, hearing mulch crunch beneath his son’s antsy feet. “Okay, noodle, go play then,” He didn’t have to say it twice as Ben took off, his sneakers kicking mulch up against Harry’s leg. “And don’t talk to strangers!”

He sat, enjoying the nature around him. He listened to children run off not too far in the distance, and dogs bark behind him, and a baby babbling beside him.

“What’s their name?” He asked, glancing to his left. He reached up, adjusting the blacked out shades covering his eyes.

“Lucy,” A man said, the baby squealing as she was bounced on her father’s knee. “She’s my youngest of four.”

Four. _Wow_. Harry only had Ben every other week, and the seven year old was enough to keep him on his toes. “That’s sweet, I lo—,” _Achoo._

Allergies.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, reaching for the zip on his bag. “I wa—,” _Achoo_. “Shit— I mean, shoot, not-,” _Achoo_.

“It’s okay,” A chuckle resonated with the same voice. “Here, babe.”

Something soft brushed the top of Harry’s hand and he took it, feeling the thin layers and pressing it to his nose before blowing. _Attractive_ , he thought.

“I’m Louis,” The voice introduced.

“Oh,” Harry sniffed, wiping his nose with the soft tissue. “Well, thank you, Louis. I’m Harry,” He smiled towards the man.

Louis pressed a kiss to the top of Lucy’s head, a plastic ring of toy keys in her mouth and dripping with slobber. “No problem, babe.”

 _Babe_ , Harry repeated to himself.

Three chipper voices came out of nowhere, surrounding him. Or rather, Louis. “Daddy, can we get smoothies now? You promised smoothies!” One voice said.

“I want peach! Izzy wants strawberry,” A second voice said.

“Ew, no! I want grape,” A third voice added, to which Harry could only assume was Izzy, maybe.

“They don’t have grape!” The second voice argued.

“Yeah-huh, I saw it!” The third screeched as if she was offended.

It was continuous, a rapture of a smoothie-talk. And then it fell silent with a soft command, and Harry just smiled.

“As you can see, duty calls,” Louis spoke finally, strapping Lucy into her stroller. “It was nice meeting you, Harold.”

“Harry.” He retorted politely, hands wrapped around his walking-stick.

Louis glanced over at his daughters, shooing them onward as they watched Harry and asked questions about his cane. “Harold.” Louis said, the smile evident by the tone of his voice. “See you around, maybe.”

And then giggles faded into nothing but the squeaked of rusted swings, and dogs barking in the background  
once again.

“ _Maybe_.” He whispered to himself.

— 2294 —

You’d think, in the future, they’d at least have something to cure heartbreak. However, much to Harry’s dismay, they don’t. The cure, even thousands of years later, is liquor. He’s already down on his fourth glass of Scotch and it’s not like it tastes good- it never does- but it helps him forget for the time being.

 _Was he that fucking naive?_ Had he actually let Scott back on a second chance when he knew he was just going to blow it? Yes, he had, as if seeing his now ex-boyfriend in bed with his best mate wasn’t enough before. But he wanted more.

Ruby the RabbitFoot is comforting him, her voice cracking through the speakers of the old bar. It’s not really his scene. Bars, in general- but he’d made an exception tonight. And everyplace else was packed with couples holding hands, and making proposals, and kissing, and having everything Harry didn’t. Whereas this place was deserted, save for the bartender and himself.

 _Fucking Valentine’s Day_.

The neck of a bottle clinked against his glass as the bartender, Louis, filled him up. Again.

He probably wished Harry was gone to cry his sorrows out to some other poor, unexpecting bartender, but Harry wasn’t moving until he had to.

“How much do I owe?” Harry asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes closed. A fair amount he was sure, he’d made it through almost an entire bottle.

Louis wiped down the counter, and collected a few dirty glasses scattered around down in a pan below the counter. It was near closing-time, and Harry should have been gone hours ago.

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis smiled, one Harry instantly mistook for pity.

God, he is pathetic. Drinking the thought of Scott away with cheap Scotch.

Scott. Scotch. Scott- no.

“I can’t do that, don’t you have to like give inventory to the owner?” He asked, lifting the glass to his lips once more. The gesture was sweet but Harry couldn’t possibly ta—

“I am the owner.” Louis said.

Oh. Well, in _that_ case. “You sure?”

Louis nodded without hesitation, drying a glass with a rag. “It’s the least I can do,” He said, sitting the clean glass down and grabbing to shot glasses instead. He grabbed a bottle of Bourbon behind him and poured two, one for himself and Harry.

He took it gratefully, looking at Louis before nodding. Both tipped them back at once, the liquor burning their throats. Harry frowned because Bourbon did not taste good with Scotch.

“You gonna be okay, mate?” Louis asked, pouring them both another shot.

They went back like the ones previous. The taste wasn’t much better.

“‘Course,” Harry lied, because he was probably going to go home and drink himself away some more. Only to the tune of reality television and sad songs. “I should probably go anyway, y’know. But thanks for the drinks,” Harry moved to stand, his legs feeling a bit like jelly as he grabbed his jacket and pulled it over his broad shoulders.

Louis nodded, the glasses clinking together as he collected them and dumped them in the wash pan below. “Hey,” Louis called over his shoulder, stopping Harry at the door.

He turned around, scarf hanging unevenly around his neck. “Yeah?” He asked, eyes glassy and cheeks pink.

“I’m gonna see you again, right?” He smiled softly, aiming high.

It was always a bit of a chance, especially when someone was crying over bottles of liquor for their ex. Things can get a bit touchy. Sometimes. Louis hoped it wasn’t one of those times.

The smile that touched the corners of Harry’s mouth said it wasn’t. “Yeah,” He nodded, feeling something burn inside of him that wasn’t liquor. “If you want to.”

What did that mean? “Well of course I fucking want to,” Louis chuckled, shaking his head at Harry. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Harry didn’t say anything in return, only smiled. He nodded eventually and turned for the exit once more.

“Careful getting home, babe.” Louis said, bringing the pan of dirty glasses up onto the counter to be washed. “Happy Valentines Day.”

“Yeah, you too,” Harry was welcomed by a gust of cold air when he opened the door. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face on the way out, or walk home.

Maybe it was a _Happy_ Valentine’s Day after all.


End file.
